Another mug shot (this one less styled than last week's Gap-ad-ready shot of Kid Suspect) fills the screen of the War Room, this time of Creepiovitch. He's a dangerous mercenary who's skilled in the art of omelets -- I mean, "abduction." Leader wants him captured. Now. The transcripts of the phone call we eavesdropped in on earlier arrive. Creepiovitch will get $7 million to show up and off someone. One word isn't translated: "NARODOWY." It's a bank in Poland, Jake finds out quickly, and then asks the blonde to access the security tapes for the branch. She says she can if The Man asks her to. Jake does that pretending to be talking/major sassmouth thing all little kids and stunted adults do when shot down, and The Man asks her to do what Jake just asked. Jake; smart and smart-assed. Leader is all, "What are we missing?" The Man says, "There's always La Fortunada." What? Leader says, "Show him."
Now we're so deep inside the bowels of the NSA I think I can actually smell poop. Jake is carrying two huge boxes of files and listening to The Man pepper him with commands. "Speak only in short, terse phrases. Under no circumstances will you engage. Got it?" I have a question. Should my short, terse phrases also be brief? Is it all right with you if I make them succinct, too? I'm also a fan of brevity. It's the soul of, um, what's that thing? It's not like jokes, but can be funny. Oh, right. Wit. Anyway, with The Man's build-up, I'm expecting Anthony Hopkins behind a Plexiglas shield, or better yet, Leonard Peltier eating croissants with Mumia-Abu Jamal, but behind the steel red door is none other than Scotty, from Dead Last! Now that was a show I loved to recap, too, with low ratings (like this one), but Jake 2.0 won't get cancelled off the site before it gets cancelled off the air. At least, I'm wishing it won't. Scotty was the affable drummer, very Jack Blackian in stature and comedy styling (a.k.a. fat and frenetic), and I'm so glad he's here. Loved him then, love him now. He's out from behind his desk in moments, hearing "that clarion call" meaning his country needs him. The Man shows him a picture of Creepiovitch; Scotty knows him. "He's a heavy hitter." The Man wants him to find out who has called him up to bat, as it were. Scotty is down, just let him make "a few HUNDRED phone calls." He laughs like Top Cat, all wheezy and breathy. He says he could write a book if he hadn't signed a ton of release forms that require he not do so. Then he notices Jake, and shakes his hand while squeezing his shoulder with the other hand. Very touchy-feely, this Seymour La Fortunada. They do a few fumbling soul-brother handshake moves (The Man watches them with a wry little smile) as Seymour runs down his résumé in short, terse phrases. He helped apprehend such high-profile criminals as the Unibomber, the Unicorn Killer, and Nafari-alas Khan. His "magic? [He] read[s] people." Like a menu. Jake makes a perfect mock-enthused "wow, that's great" crossed with a "this guy is nuts" face, and then The Man's phone rings. "Facial ID has a hit." Seymour gives the departing spy guys a raised-fist salute and a "go get 'em!" You too, honey.
We're at a bank. Jake and The Man ask the stern, mole-faced manager to release Creepiovitch's financial information. The manager is a real smitty and asks for their subpoena. Jake says dryly that he "left it in the car." The Man is all, "In the time it would take us to petition a judge, very bad things could happen." Jake's eyes blaze in a burst of nano-power and he gets the info from Smitty's computer, conveniently located right behind him. Jake gets Creepiovitch's balance -- $500,000 bucks -- and the two are on their way.